When Harry says hello, he means for now. He means let’s see how the evening goes. He means he might or might not have something else come up and he will have to leave. When Harry says I brought you flowers he means this is still not an engagement ring. It will never be an engagement ring, so don’t even ask. It’s a good thing I speak Harry. There are subtleties that only a trained ear can pick up. When Harry says, I’ll put these flowers in a vase, he means these flowers …
We received an incredible response to our first-ever contest. And our winners are the best of the best! A big thank you to Heather Christle for judging and choosing the winners from our list of finalists. Read the flash pieces at the links below: 1st Place: "Blaze" by Merridawn Duckler 2nd Place: "in response to the viral r/askreddit thread titled 'what’s classy if you’re rich, but trashy if you’re poor?'" by [sarah] Cavar 3rd Place: "When I Hear the Baby" by Kelle Schillaci …
Davening. Head bowed between feet, kissing forehead to earth, paper body folded on the sun-splashed kitchen floor. My toddler is keening in supplication to the Gods of Can. This time can I open the baby gate? Can I hold the knife Daddy uses to cut my blueberries? Can I stand on this chair and finally see what’s on top of the counter? But the governing forces of Can’t are as certain as sunrise and gravity and naptime. When I lift her squirming body and tell her that she can’t stand on …
She says, I don’t think that baby is eating enough, and I poke a pointy finger into its spongy side. But Baby, I say, that baby is a round baby. Round like pomelo, like a panda, like a wheel of Parmesan cheese. That baby is a terrycloth towel full of tapioca pudding. And Baby, that baby is gonna be fine. She says, I don’t think that baby is eating enough, and who am I to doubt her? I am not monitoring frequency and flow, and I only measure throughput in pre-portioned popsicles and tiny …
When I hear the baby, I think it’s a cat that’s been left outside in the rain, that’s stuck in a tree, that’s weaved its weak body into an open pipe and can’t find its way out. When I hear the baby, I think it’s a tiny jay fallen from a tall branch, its busy bird-mom out running errands. Or maybe it’s a sick squirrel, writhing in pain, like the one I once discovered beneath a bench in Mexico when I was, myself, practically a baby. Not old enough to know any better. I tried to pick it …
On Saturday, diner day at Cozy's, I’d wear my new mascara and order a face-sized breakfast. I’d whisper, “do we look rich?” Grandma wore furs. She said things like “primo” and “I betcha.” We were fancy together. Fancy. Fancy. Fancy. I’d fancy-chant till I was dizzy. Grandma was how I learned to salt my pancakes. “To wake the syrup,” she said. I began salting my eyelids, too, after I first saw her with the palette. Her tender strokes. We lived with tense necks, seized by a …